There is a stage. There is a
mattress on the floor. There are sequins draped over shelves. There is
a black metal rotary phone on an oversized desk. The desk stands
opposite to an exercise bar secured tight to each edge of the doorway.
There is an oval mirror in the corner - thickly framed. There is a
courtroom, and a podium. There is a brick alley and a poster reading
caution. There is an attic with candle light and mistletow.

Somewhere in the room is a large table joined at three
leaves, supported with metal legs. My elbows have rested here.

I was a salesgirl for a period.
I tried to prove myself as an honest woman. I'd do funny things. After
they put on the dress, I'd stand and they were waiting for me to zip
them up or something, and I didn't do anything.

Abandoned. To be the bell and then to fall.

I had a dream in New York. A
dream under the appletree. I would be ruined. I could not avoid it.
1945 - age 37, New York, February, 4 a.m., the dream in the apple tree

There is a large chair on the
porch, directly in front of the door. Made from mahogany, the chair has
a wide cresting rail with rounded ears. The back gently leans towards
the brick exterior. The seat is loosely covered in a piece of white
linen. The stiles are thick. The apron is short. The splat narrows as
it reaches the shoe. There is sunlight, a bright white harsh light.
There is a cake on the chair. A white cake. My cake. A cake made from
Mother.

Radiant gold with love from Mother. 1916 - Age 10, radiant gold with love from mother.

If you enter the front hall,
there is a grand staircase. A waiting room with a small loveseat. It is
green with a camel back and walnut legs. Too big for one body but too
small for two.